He said his name was “Jose Rodriguez,” laughed, then added the caveat, “even though I’m Greek.” This was my first hint about the weird secrecy that surrounds the ice cream truck trade—a business of tinny jingles and something much darker than chocolate soft serve hiding under the rainbow sprinkle exterior.
In a city that bears little resemblance to the graffiti-covered hustle of New York City in the 80s, it’s ice cream that regularly harkens back to the grimier past. Stories abound of brake-cutting and turf wars that have occasionally escalated into violence.